Especially when things had gotten physical.

She ran her finger along the edge of the picture. “What would you do?”

Easing into the chair beside her, Aunt Frieda leaned in for a better look at the image. Her voice was full of tenderness and sympathy. “I don’t know, kiddo. But what I do know is that life is short.” She covered Cassie’s hand with her own and waited until Cassie met her gaze. “Maybe it’s time you stopped worrying about what everyone else thinks and whether or not they approve of your life, and just slow down and enjoy the life you have.”

Chapter Two

If anyone would have told Kir three years ago that he’d be celebrating his thirty-sixth birthday in the United States complete with a homemade cake and a family of his own, he’d have either laughed or punched them. But here he was—joined not just by the two men he trusted most, but by his pakhan’s wife, Evette, and the son Sergei had claimed as his own.

Happy Birthday, Uncle Kir!

The message Emerson had written in bright blue icing against white frosting was only marginally legible and smeared in places, but for the life of him, Kir couldn’t remember receiving a gift that meant so much. Hell, now that he thought about it, it was the only cake he’d ever been given. Which was rather sad for a man his age.

All around him, the customers crowded into Bacchanal’s patio chattered and laughed while the lively notes from the Zydeco band playing inside the restaurant filtered out into the pleasant night. Even the little white lights strung overhead seemed a little brighter than on his normal visits. As if Evette, Emerson, Sergei and Roman had conspired to make them a part of the celebration as well.

Beside him, Emerson shifted from one foot to the other and stared up at him, his dark blond hair long enough it slightly shadowed his keen eyes. “Do we have to sing the birthday song first? Or can we eat it now? Olga wouldn’t let me steal a bite before we frosted it.”

“Boy, don’t go telling fibs to your uncle Kir on his birthday.” Seated next to her husband of almost six months, Evette was the epitome of casual class—short dark hair cut in an artfully messy style, sharp hazel eyes that always seemed to hold a wealth of laughter and a spunky grace that fit her petite stature. She shot Kir a conspiratorial wink then propped her chin on her hand and eyeballed her son. “You and I both know I had to make a second pass at the icing before we left tonight to cover up a suspicious hole on the backside of the cake.”

Most kids might have balked or tried to talk their way out of it, but Emerson was nothing like other kids. More of a grown-up with a razor-sharp wit trapped in a rapidly growing body. He grinned right back at his mother and lifted his chin. “You can’t call that a bite. That was just a taste of the icing with a few extra crumbs along for the ride.”